


Addicted? Yes. Committed? Not so much.

by dearsnickets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearsnickets/pseuds/dearsnickets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, 17 has been pushed forward for support in a private clinic for his compulsive recreational drug use. His doctor, John Watson,  finds the teen intolerable and is eager for his treatment to be over. But as the two begin to spend more time together it becomes clear that Sherlock doesn't feel the same way as his Doctor, and in fact feels all too much for him.<br/>With his on and off again, head-fuck of a boyfriend and drug dealer Sherlock struggles between wanting to get better and wanting to keep him close.<br/>John Watson struggles to get Sherlock to cooperate.<br/>Everybody struggles. Much angst. Much fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The wrenching in his gut.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, being written during exam study leave so I will have a lot of time but I will also be constantly under stress. I hope you like it!

A wisp of pale smoke coiled through the thick winter air as Sherlock Holmes reluctantly let loose the last drag of his cigarette. Stubbing the butt under his scuffed, black oxford he set his eyes on the building in front of him and, cursing under his breath he began to drag his feet towards the entrance.

            He paused on the stone steps, his hand ghosting over the pocket of his jeans, finding the familiar shape of his mobile. “ _No_ ,” he sternly reminded himself, “Don’t give him the satisfaction.” His eyes drifted up to the building in front of him; an old dissipating Victorian building, recently painted a sterile white and cast in the shadow of a larger building in front (the main building were patients were often “encouraged” to stay). Was that what he was now? A “ _patient_ ”? He shoved his hands into the pockets of his long coat and tried his best to ignore the wrenching in his gut. Once again, his hands rooted through his pockets in reach of his phone, but he retraced them, silently cursing his brother.

            It was _his_ fault he was standing here at this very moment. Dear Mycroft had seemingly had enough of his younger brothers “destructive tendencies” and had gently guided him towards help. Sherlock remembered his words now, as he ascended the steps and pressed the buzzer on the side of the front door, “ _Either you stop fucking up your life and get help, or I tell mother_.”

            “Hello?” Came a chirpy, male voice from the intercom. “Name?”  
“Sherlock Holmes.” A brief spell of keyboard clicks resounded through the speakers. “Ah, _yes._ ” The voice came again. Even through the speakers it sounded suddenly tolerant. “You’re brother was looking for-”  
“Yeah?” Sherlock sighed.  
“Yeah. Interesting fellow, you’re brother.”  
“So I’ve heard. He’s single if you’re interested. But be warned, there is a reason he’s single.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. He’s a fucking dick.” A startled cough came through the speakers. The door clicked unlocked.  
“Go right through.” A new voice said flatly.  
“Thanks, Mycroft.” Sherlock smirked as he opened the door and ascended the immediate stairs.

            He found Mycroft waiting for him at the top. “Brother, dear,” He grinned, amused. “You didn’t tell me you were coming on the excursion.” In return Mycroft didn’t say a word. Instead he pushed the younger forward, with his hand on the small of his back, and guided him into a small waiting room. They took a seat on a pink couch in the corner of the room. “You weren’t answering your phone.” He said tiredly, propping his umbrella up on the side of the couch. Sherlock shrugged in answer. “How did you get through the receptionist?”  
“I didn’t. He was there with me. Some will let anybody into even the most prohibited of places. “ Mycroft sighed.  
“Nice, was he?” Sherlock smirked.  
“I don’t even know his name.”

Just then a young woman popped her head into the waiting room. “Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock stood and began to follow her through the door. However, at the door he turned on his heel, leaning round the side of the frame. “ _Liar_ ,” he snorted. “His name is Joseph.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother. “It says so on his number sticking out of your suit pocket.” Sherlock tilted his head, winking, and swung back around the door to follow the woman down the hall.


	2. Don’t mess this up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to Mycroft's disappointment Sherlock's appointment doesn't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having never have published any of my writing online before I was sort of overwhelmed with the response it got. Thank you all so much. I did dance around for a good five minutes when I checked back two hours later to see that an odd 50 people had read something I hadn't even counted on two people reading. You are all so lovely.

She was a young woman. Older than Sherlock, but not by much of a stretch. He guessed about seven years older. She was in her early twenties. She spoke softly, but her words had an edge to them which made Sherlock make a mental note to himself that he was _never_ to cross her. A short woman, who lived alone with three cats. He squinted at the back of her head, into her mousy brown hair. Gay? He wasn’t sure. Quite possibly. She was an attractive woman, well educated, well kept. Although he knew how many a man found these qualities rather intimidating in women.

            She led him to the end of a corridor and punched numbers into a keypad. She smiled briefly at him as she held the door open. Hooper. Her name tag read “Hooper”. He nodded at her as he passed her by.

            Two sets of stairs later, Sherlock found himself in low ceilinged room whose walls wore NHS distributed posters like wallpaper. “ _Are you too dependent on drink?”_ One asked him kindly as he took a seat across the desk from Hooper. He swallowed.

            A stack of papers landed in front of him. “Paper work,” Hooper said apologetically. He sniffed, his bodily suddenly tense. “My brother assured me-“  
“That you wouldn’t be kept on record?” She finished for him.  
“Yes, exactly.”  
“You will be kept off work records, but for safety measures _we,_ as a clinic are forced to keep a few details only while you are being treated. You’re brother was made aware.”  
Sherlock sniffed and took the pen she held out to him. “It’s only a few questions, and it’ll cut a considerable amount of time out of your first session of you fill them out now.” Sherlock nodded.

“Now,” Hooper said, straightening up, “Your doctor will be with you shortly. You focus on those forms and he will ask you a few simple questions so he can decide on the course he will take. Understand?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. “ _Good.”_ She smiled genuinely and then was gone.

            Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Mycroft. “ _Don’t mess this up. –MH”_ With a roll of his eyes Sherlock thrust his phone back into his pocket.

            He was sick of it. Sick of this shadow his brother had cast on him. This prestigious, worthwhile shadow. His brother had, for the last three years, been steadily working his way up in the government. Seven years his senior, at the age of twenty six he had a well paying job, which he was, in Sherlock’s opinion, pathetically tied to. Although, as Mycroft had reminded him often, Sherlock could not complain about his commitment to his job, as Sherlock had never had one. Nor had Sherlock ever, in his life, felt committed to anything much at all. Addicted? _Yes_. Committed? Not so much.

            There were, of course, the puzzles and the mysteries that came between the drug hazed days. The breaks and cracks of startling clarity when his mind would wrap around missing possessions and missing murder weapons and he would roam the streets of London in search of leads. Give that man a puzzle and watch him dance. His mind was a deafening whir of scarlet threads leading one fact to another, connecting one face to another; everything linked. Everything vibrant and _oh so clear._ Standing in the middle of a murder scene was the one place Sherlock Holmes felt the slightest sense of commitment. The slightest sense of _silence._

            You see, he wasn’t a lost cause; a dip in the families IQ levels. Sherlock Holmes was a highly intelligent man. He had loved it, the high of calling somebody out on their misinformation. A feeling of pure ecstatic when he was in the centre of Scotland Yard, knowingthat they _needed_ him. That they needed this doped-up-not-quite-lost cause. _They_ needed _him._ And yet, they had no idea the extent to which he so needed _them._

            The cases, the puzzles, the games- they made it stop. The omnipresent whirring in his mind. They silenced it, maybe not forever, but they held the remote to which Sherlock so desperately needed to mute the thoughts; the _noise._

            And looking down at these papers in his hands, a mess of noise came again. He focused on the questions set to him, and began to fill in the most simplistic. He scrawled across the page details of what he had taken, how much he had taken, when he had started.  The last time he had used.The lHe skipped over details of exactly _how_ he had turned to substance and instead focused as much as he could on the facts.

            Sherlock had just slid the papers back over to the other side of the desk when he heard the door open behind him. Decided, in that moment, that he was going to be as difficult as possible whenever in this building when it came to his treatment, he leant back in his chair, his eyes facing forward. He heard the distinguishable tap of a cane accompanying the man’s footsteps.

            A blond man settled himself in the char across from Sherlock. If one word were to describe him at this very moment in time it would be “tired.” Lines carved their way under his sunken eyes forming a rather artistic palette of broken nights and- Sherlock’s eyes caught themselves on his hair once more. Well kept, short.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked the man as he reached for his forms. His tired eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s.  
“Sorry?” He asked, his mouth hanging slightly agape.  
“Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked again, this time with a slight sigh.  
“Afghanistan... Sorry, how did you-“ Sherlock waved the man away. The man continued to stare at him, nonetheless. After a minute he shook his head.  
“Okay. Mr.Holmes,” He looked over Sherlock’s sheets. “You’ve left a few of these blank.” He read further down the sheet, “These are things I will need to know if your treatment is to commence. You do understand this?”  
“Yes.”  
“So,” The man pushed the sheets back across the desk. “Please fill these in.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the sheets back from him. He began to write.  
 “So, I am your doctor, Dr.Watson, we will be meeting regularly, three times a week to begin with and then we will plan if he need more or less meetings from then on. I noticed that you have not committed yourself to treatment and have instead been committed by one...” The doctor flipped open a file on the desk and glanced down the page,”- By one Mycroft Holmes. Your father?” Sherlock gave a brief laugh, his eyes still fixed on his forms. “Brother.”  
“Right,” The doctor smiled. “Well your brother obviously cares for your health.” He read over brief details of Sherlock’s reason for commitment, “You...on the other hand.” Sherlock snorted, pushing the forms back across the desk.  
“Thank you,” The doctor smiled briefly. “Now, it says the last time you used was two days ago. What drove you to that?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the other man. He was just getting _right_ into it, wasn’t he? Well, Sherlock realized, the quicker he talks about it and makes some half-arsed promise not to use again the quicker he gets out of this building and is on his way over to Scotland Yard.  
 “I got bored,” Sherlock smiled.  
Watson  sighed, a patient sigh. “Okay,” He scribbled some notes down on a pad to his right. “And where did you get your substance?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “No.” He said flatly.  
“No?” Asked the Doctor lightly.  
“Don’t ask me.” Sherlock said, his voice now had a jagged edge to it.  
“Okay,” The Doctor scribbled some more. “You know,” He began gently,” Some users feel a sense of closeness to their dealers, they feel like they have a relationship with them. But what you need to understand, Mr. Holmes, is that your dealer only wants your company for one thing- and that is money. He, or she, only wants your business. And-” Sherlock abruptly pushed himself up from his chair.     
“Where are you going?” The Doctor asked him.  
“Out, I need a cigarette.”  
“Please just wait a minute, Mr.Holmes.”  
“Why should I? I know everything you are going to say to me in this room. I know your idiotic “treatment” plans. And I know that you didn’t sleep last night because your bed faces the window and is too near your door.”  
The Doctor sighed . “And _I_ know that when you leave this room, you’ll have no intention of coming back.”  
Sherlock shrugged. “This is London, you have a thousand junkies you can help- that need your _business._ One slipping into the rough isn’t exactly a loss.” He turned to leave. The Doctor stood up after him. “Is that all you are then?” He asked, his voice rising slightly,” A _junkie_?”  
“Obviously,” Sherlock shrugged, his eyes flaring, “why else would I be here?”  
The doctor shook his head. “You could be more than that.” He said softly. Sherlock gave a short laugh and let the door slam shut behind him.

* * *

 

    Sherlock ignored his calls; he ignored the wrenching in his stomach once more.  
He knew it wasn’t too late, he could turn back, apologize and tell the tired man he needed this more than he was willing to admit. He knew he still had a chance, and somehow it killed him to think that once again he was giving it up- giving himself up.

            It was getting dark, and the streets of London felt far too close together, the buildings leaning menacingly into his sides. He turned into a lit ally-way and felt the space around him expand and grow. He gave a sigh of relief. He sent a text. He needed somebody who wouldn’t be disgusted with him, somebody he could count on to understand.

            He soon found himself grinning at a man who was grinning right back at him, his arms around his waist and Sherlock’s back pressing into his chest. “I _missed_ you,” purred the voice at his ear. “Where did you go, Sherly?” Sherlock laughed softly.  
“Mycroft decided it was time I took a break.”  
“From me?” He could hear the pout in Jim’s voice.  
“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock sighed, “From our favourite hobby.”  
Jim pulled him tighter. “Is that so?” He hummed in his ear.  
Sherlock nodded. “I don’t know...” He said suddenly, his voice quiet. “Would it be so bad? To just quit? Just leave it all behind. Live everyday clearly... be able to _remember_ everyday clearly. To just be able to _remember_. Because _fuck_ sometimes I don’t even remember how much  I’ve had until you’re ringing me up for it two days later.”  
“You know I wouldn’t charge you unless I had to...”  
“Of course I know you wouldn’t.” Sherlock smiled, tracing his fingers up and down the other mans leg. “It’s just.... I don’t know when it all got too much, I just know that it _is_ too much. It was just to just stop the noise at first- but now... it stops everything. You know? I used to be able to sleep every once in a while. Now, I usually just pass out on your couch. And even I can see that it’s not exactly healthy.”  
“But you _love_ it,” He could feel Jim’s lips curl into a grin against his neck.  
Sherlock laughed, “I might love that it’s _your_ couch, that I’m here with _you_ , but it’s too much .” Sherlock’s chin dropped to his chest; he took a steady breath. “I take too much.” He felt Jim shift slightly away from him. Sherlock turned around; kneeling between the other mans knees. “It’s time to give it up.” He said, his forehead creased and his lip between his teeth.  
Jim stared at him calmly,”Oh Sherly, you are so funny at times. Tell me what’s going on in that funny little head of yours, because I don’t understand. Do you understand? Explain it to me.” Sherlock sighed, and shook his head sadly.  
“I need to stop. The drugs. The drinking too- I think...”  
“You _think_?”  Sherlock nodded, averting his eyes from Jim’s. He felt fingers on his cheek. His head was pushed up to look Jim in the eyes. “Well, darling, one more time won’t do you any harm, will it?” Sherlock bit his lip, dropping his eyes.  
“Jim...”  
“ _Sherlock_....” He purred. “Come on. One last time. For me? Free of charge.”  
“Yeah, sure.” Sherlock smiled, but he wasn’t all quite there, his mind reverted back to a short blond man, his sunken eyes daring him to stay. _Is that all you are then?_ Well, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this what he dreamed of in the brief moments of sleep? Being here, being with Jim. Being happy? Except he wasn’t exactly happy right now, was he? He felt cold, he felt awful, as if he was letting the man he loved down. The look on Jims face when he told him he needed to stop.... Jim knew he didn’t want to, he knew that he was just going to stop to make other people happy again, Mycroft mainly, but was he truly going to be happy once he stopped? Maybe Jim knew the answer was no, maybe that’s why he was trying so hard to keep Sherlock with him right here in this moment, beside him, sitting close on the floor, sitting as close to happiness as he would ever be. Sherlock didn’t always know what was best for himself, but he knew that he could often trust Jim to help him figure it out. And that’s what he needed in the haze, he needed somebody clear minded and with his best intentions in mind along with his feelings. Mycroft might have his “best intentions” in mind. But he had no _idea_ how Sherlock felt. He never even asked.

            Sherlock woke to find himself not this time on Jim’s couch, but instead where he most appreciated waking up after nights like these- in Jim’s bed. Jim lay next to him, still fast asleep, his face worn and handsome. He rolled over gently, to reach for his phone, on the side table. He checked the time, ten AM. He was supposed to be at Scotland Yard in less than half an hour. He rolled out of the bed and began to dress as silently as possible. Planning how best to travel to the centre of London in such a short time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow!


	3. Incapable of making alright decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock have a knife fight.  
> That's a joke.  
> Sherlock's life gets fucked up some more.

Sherlock was 20 minutes late to Scotland Yard. He took the elevator to the third floor and made his way to the morgue. However, before he was there, he felt a hand fall gently on his arm and looked up to see it belong to D.I Lestrade. “Sherlock,” He said gently, “We need to talk.”With an impatient shrug Sherlock followed the silver haired man to his office along the hall. Once inside Lestrade motioned for him to take a seat, Sherlock stood standing with his hands on his hips. “What was it you wanted?” He asked, eager to get to the morgue before the body he wanted to examine was shifted. He was already 20 minutes late.  
“Your brother phoned me last night.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t uncommon for the two men to have a “friendly chat”.  
“And?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“He was looking for you. He said you didn’t go home last night.”  
“Yeah? Well it’s hardly his business where I spend my nights. I’m a responsible seventeen year old.”  
“Well, he doesn’t seem to think so.” The D.I’s face clouded over. “Sherlock,” He sighed mournfully. “You can’t keep this up. It’s high tide this be a thing of the past.”  
Of course, one Greg Lestrade knew of the teen’s drug habits. Drug habits he had been promised were a thing of the past. It was a compromise for working with The Yard.  
“Drop it, Greg.” Sherlock said slowly. He searched Greg’s face for a look of renouncing, but the man’s face just grew tired. Sherlock turned to leave.  
“Sherlock, you need to leave.” Sherlock turned on his heel.  
“What?” He asked.  
“Until you get better you can’t be working here- I’m sorry, Sherlock, you’re one of our best, but we can’t have you here when you’re like this-“  
“Like what?” Sherlock demanded. “High?” He thrust his hands out. “I’m not high, and if you couldn’t tell that maybe a man with your level of intelligence shouldn’t be in your position.”  
“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock stared at the man. His chest rose and fell, his eyes stung. He wanted to get out, to leave, and to never come back. But all at the same time he wanted so badly to stay.  
“Greg.” Sherlock said softly, with a voice that was not so much braking, as already broken. “I need this. It’s the only thing that can make me...” He trailed off knowing that Greg wouldn’t be able to understand The Noise. “I just- I need this, okay?” He knew he was begging now.  
“Mycroft said-“  
“Mycroft can’t let me have one thing I enjoy for a minute! And it’s all to do with-“ He realized he was shouting now. His eyes swam and burned as if dusted with salts.  
“You can come back when you’re clean- when you’re better” Lestrade said softly. The two men were close now, Sherlock could hear the other’s agitated breath. Sherlock stepped closer.  
“And what makes you think I can get better?” Lestrade’s breath left him in a prolonged breath. His face dropped. He looked as helpless as Sherlock felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still in the middle of my highers (UK's exams in your fifth year of high school) so it's a really short chapter. But I'm just glad to get back to it. Also, I'm not naming the chapters after lines in the fic because I just finished reading a book that did that and it sounded cheesy and it just pissed me off. So now I'm going with the all original choice of~ song lyrics. Wow so original. I think I'll always note the song the lyrics are from though. So yeah.  
> Chapter Title- "Why'd You only Call me when You're High?" by The Arctic Monkeys. (hella)


End file.
